A tribute to Dr. Jose P. Laurel

By Jovito R. Salonga. Excerpts from a speech at the Awards
Convocation, Lyceum of the Philippines, 8 March 2000

Jose P. Laurel Award you have so generously conferred upon me and, at the
same time, congratulate my fellow awardees.

Permit me to recall the recent past, so we can have an idea of the man
who founded this Institution, and thereby see what Lyceum stands for,
in our collective quest for Truth and Fortitude—the two forces
that give the individual and the nation the courage and the strength
to face any adversity. For your education here in Lyceum is not just
to enable you to earn a living but, in a deeper sense, to teach you
how to live a life of purpose and meaning, long after your
graduation. Never allow your schooling, as Mark Twain used to say, to
interrupt your education.

More than 48 years ago, your president, Dr. Sotero H. Laurel and I,
who had been law partners since early 1949, used to come to this place
to see how the construction of this building was progressing from day
to day. The old man, Dr. Jose P. Laurel, who, according to Malacanang
and the Comelec, lost in the 1949 presidential elections, had been
prevailed upon by his party leaders to run for the Senate. He did not
have to campaign as hard as before. As expected by many people, he
copped first place in the 1951 elections. It was a magnificent
vindication for both the nation and the man who richly deserved it.

In some places in Mindanao in the presidential elections of 1949, the
birds and the bees voted and even the dead had apparently been
resurrected so they could vote. In some places in the Visayas, the
elections had been marred by incredible fraud and terrorism. But in
the 1951 elections, thanks to the new Secretary of National Defense
Ramon Magsaysay, who did not allow the agents of violence to rig the
elections, the nation gave the highest honor to a man who might have
been president.

But, in point of fact, Dr. Jose P. Laurel was the president of this
country during the Japanese occupation. I vividly recall the
antecedent circumstances.

I was arrested and tortured in Pasig during the first days of April
1942, due to my underground activities against the Japanese; I was
hauled to Fort Santiago, then transferred to the San Marcelino jail,
and confined in the Old Bilibid Prisons on Azcarraga, now Claro
M. Recto street. In June 1942, I was sentenced to 15 years of hard
labor in Muntinglupa. But on February 11, 1943, I was suddenly
released from imprisonment on the occasion of the Foundation Day of
Japan, known as Kigen Setsu. Home for me was no longer in Pasig. I
found our family on Carriedo street in Manila and after a few days, I
was able to visit my very sick mother in the Philippine General
Hospital.

Almost four months later, in the afternoon of June 5, 1943, Jose P.
Laurel, the Commissioner of Interior, was shot in Wack-Wack while
playing golf. He was rushed to the Philippine General Hospital, and it
was not known whether he would survive or not. A number of my friends
and relatives rejoiced in silence, believing that Dr. Laurel was a
Japanese collaborator.

Not knowing him personally at that time, I was torn between my deep
admiration for him as a jurist and my revulsion over the abuses and
the atrocities of the Japanese military. Laurel was probably the most
respected member of the Supreme Court before the war, having been
described by President Manuel L. Quezon as the Supreme Court justice
with the most powerful pen. In 1941, I was a senior law student
in the U.P and in our review classes in Political Law, I was impressed
again and again by the clarity of his thinking, the majesty and power
of his language and the wisdom of his opinions. How, I had asked
myself, how could such a man be a traitor to his people? As I said
years later, the bullet wounds that he sustained could not have hurt
him more than the sheer anguish of being cursed and misunderstood by
the people he had loved so passionately and served so well—as
the youngest Cabinet member, a graduate of U.P and Yale, who dared an
American Governor General on a point of honor; then as a professor of
law who graced the halls of the Senate at a time when only those who
had superior intellect, experience and a track record of genuine
service to the people could qualify for the people's
mandate—wala pang mga movie actors at basketball stars na
naglakas-loob na pumasok sa Senado noon; then as the shining light of
the 1934 Constitutional Convention, where he drafted the Bill of
Rights; and as the justice of the Supreme Court whose opinions
generations of lawyers and law students would love to memorize.

It was a miracle from heaven that despite his serious injuries, Dr.
Laurel survived the assassination attempt. It must have led many
people, including the Japanese, to believe that Laurel had been chosen
by destiny to be the president of a nation under Japanese military
occupation.

And so, the wounded Jose P. Laurel—not Benigno Aquino, Sr. the
father of Ninoy and the head of Kalibapi, nor Jorge Vargas, the head
of the Executive Commission—was fated to be the president of the
Japanese-sponsored Republic. On September 25, 1943, the National
Assembly made the decision: Laurel was elected president, and Benigno
Aquino Sr., was elected Speaker. A week later, Laurel of Batangas,
Aquino of Tarlac and Jorge Vargas of Manila—the three most
prominent figures trusted by the Japanese—were flown to Tokyo to
be decorated by the Emperor of Japan and to be informed by Premier
Hideki Tojo on the guidelines of Philippine Independence. But
the Emperor's decoration was merely a softener. It turned out that
Premier Tojo wanted the new Philippine Government, under Laurel, to
declare war on the United States and Great Britain. Dr. Laurel said he
was sorry he must say No—Filipinos back home would not approve
of it, he was not the most popular leader in the Philippines and if he
were to do it, he would be a leader without any following. The
fearless leader from Batangas, the leader with a moral sense and the
firmness of conviction made of the finest steel, got away with his
refusal and the three returned to Manila.

On October 14, 1943, the Japanese-sponsored Republic was inaugurated.
The Republic, which was supposed to be a farce became an instrument of
defense and a mighty fortress, in the hands of President Laurel. He
had all the Japanese guards and Japanese advisers ousted from
Malacanang, after a showdown with the Japanese command, on the
irrefutable argument that having given independence to the Philippines
and liberated our people, the Japanese would do well to make good
their claim. As President of the Republic, he asserted his right to
the custody of Manuel Roxas, and told the Japanese that for as long as
he was president, they must first dispose of him before they could lay
hands on Roxas, the most popular Filipino leader Quezon had left
behind, but who was supposed to be sick due to a heart problem.

In the meantime, guerilla organizations sprouted throughout the
Philippines. We had them in Rizal, but when they were not fighting the
Japanese, they often fought each other. In Pampanga, the Hukbo ng
Bayan Laban sa Hapon, otherwise known as the Hukbalahap, under Luis
Taruc, was more united and disciplined—and they were feared
throughout Central Luzon.

Around the end of 1943, I prepared for the bar examinations scheduled
to be held in August 1944. Senior law students at the outbreak of the
war were allowed to take this only bar examination during the Japanese
occupation—a one-month ordeal. Our bar examiners were respected
personalities before the war. After the bar exams, our family
evacuated to Taytay, Rizal. In October 1944, the radio and the only
English newspaper daily, the Tribune, announced the results. I rode a
bicycle from Taytay to Penafrancia, Manila, the residence of Chief
Justice Jose Yulo, and obtained my bar examination grades. But coming
home was difficult. American planes raided military installations
around Manila. In a few days, the Americans landed in Leyte. We knew
that the day of reckoning had come.

In December 1944, pro-Japanese elements among Filipinos, led by
Benigno Ramos, Pio Duran and General Artemio Ricarte, were given arms.
Apparently, they resented President Laurel's refusal to draft even one
Filipino soldier to fight on the side of Japan. Ramos had organized
the Makapili (Makabayang Pilipino) so they could take over the helm of
Government, preempt or liquidate President Laurel and deliver the
youth of the nation to the Japanese. During its inauguration in front
of the Legislative Building, which in pre-war days had been the arena
of debates among such political giants as Manuel Quezon, Sergio
Osmena, Claro M. Recto and Jose P. Laurel, the wartime president
stood in the imperious presence of General Yamashita and delivered a
stinging speech, first, to the Japanese high command who must have
thought that every Filipino could be intimidated or terrorized, and
second but more importantly, to the pro-Japanese Filipinos who must
have been blinded by ignorance or tainted by sheer opportunism.

There is only one Republic, of which I am the President,
pointedly declared Dr. Laurel, and as long as I am the head of
government, I cannot consent or permit any political organization of
Filipinos to exist unless that organization is subject to the
authority and control of that Republic.

Posterity, he continued by way of rebuke to the pro-Japanese
Filipinos in his audience, posterity will judge us not so much by
what we say as by what we do. It is not enough for us to say that we
love our country, that for it we will die to the bitter end... Not by
words but by deeds must we show our determination, our readiness to
defend to the last drop of our blood the honor and integrity of our
land. Let us live both as a nation and as individuals in the way our
foremost hero lived. To his country, Rizal devoted and consecrated
everything, life included. As his countrymen and followers, we can do
no less.

It is easy in these days of relative freedom to talk of love of
country and heroism. But Dr. Laurel, the professor of law, taught his
people, less by classroom instruction than by a lifetime of quiet
example, the meaning of self-sacrifice and devotion to the public
good—in the most critical, unforgettable period of our nation's
history. He was president of a country that had been defeated in the
battles of Bataan and Corregidor.

What distinguishes him from our present crop of leaders is that
President Jose P. Laurel had (1) a sense of purpose and direction and
(2) he had a moral ascendancy precisely because he had a moral
foundation—the source of his inner strength and moral fortitude, in
the face of all conceivable risks and adversities. Come to think of
it, he was blessed with good friends, but he had no cronies; he had
his share of relatives, but he had no in-laws and outlaws. And he had
no ill-gotten wealth.

In the second week of January 1945, American troops landed in
Lingayen, Pangasinan and in the evening of February 3, a squadron of
the U.S. First Cavalry, aided by Filipino guerrillas, crashed through
the gates of the UST and freed 4,000 Americans and other aliens who
had been interned there. Around midnight, they took possession of
Malacanang Palace. The population north of Pasig welcomed the American
GIs with great rejoicing until the next day.

How about the Laurels and his government? We learned, a little later,
that from Northern Luzon, President Laurel, his wife and some of the
members of his own family, were flown by the Japanese to Tokyo. The
Japanese surrendered to the Americans in August 1945, and a month
later, Dr. Laurel and his family were arrested by U.S. authorities and
flown to Manila on July 23, 1946. Upon arrival here, he was
immediately imprisoned like a common criminal in Muntinglupa, to face
the charges of treasonable collaboration against the United
States. Meantime, the man whose life he had saved, Manuel A. Roxas,
was elected President of the Philippines in the elections of April 23,
1946.

On September 2, 1946, Dr. Laurel, appeared before the People's Court
to plead not guilty and argue his motion for bail in a courtroom full
of lawyers and judges, many of whom had sat at his feet as the great
teacher of law. Dr. Laurel argued that it was the unpreparedness of
the U.S. which caused the military occupation of the Philippines by
Japan, and led to the creation of the Japanese-sponsored Philippine
Republic. If all Filipino officials, as stated in the MacArthur
Proclamation of October 23, 1944, were acting under duress, how could
they be held responsible for their acts? It was impossible to
dispute what he said so eloquently.

And in the most stirring part of his plea, Dr. Laurel said what could
not be said by many Filipino public officials, then and now:

I am neither pro-Japanese nor pro-American, I am pro-Filipino...
There is no law that can condemn me for having placed the welfare of
my people over and above that of America.

I am not expecting a decoration. I do not claim to be a hero...
Although human justice may err, what matters is that I am innocent
before my conscience and my God... I shall face my Creator in full
confidence that I had dedicated my powers, my talents and energies to
the service of my country at a time when she needed me most.

For God and country—this is what President Laurel stood for,
ever conscious of the role of Divine Providence in history and the
meaning of unselfish service. Which is why we in Lyceum, whether
student or faculty member, must seek the truth, for in the language of
the Gospel , only the truth shall set us free. And only the truth can
give us the inner strength and the fortitude to face every human
being—whether friend or foe. Veritas et fortitudo, the motto of
Lyceum, was not a mere slogan for Dr. Jose P. Laurel; it was the
guiding principle of his life.

On September 14, 1946, Dr. Laurel's petition for bail was granted and
the trial was scheduled for July 1947.

Around February 1947, I arrived in Cambridge, Massachusetts, to take
graduate studies in law. I met for the first time, Dr. Jose P.
Laurel's son, Sotero H. Laurel. He had finished his master's degree at
Harvard in 1942, and was then pursuing his doctoral degree in law,
after a very difficult time in Washington, D.C. where he had worked as
a taxi driver during the early days of the war, after which he became
Secretary to Vice President, later President Sergio Osmena, Sr. Teroy
introduced me to his wife, Lorna, a lady of grace and beauty and
refinement. In the meantime, the new Government under President Roxas
realized that the charge of collaboration was a big mistake. It
declared an amnesty and quickly withdrew the charge against Dr. Laurel
and his co-accused.

After my return to the Philippines in February 1949, Dr. Sotero Laurel
and I practised law together and taught law in the evenings. During
the 1949 election campaign, I was drawn into the presidential campaign
and had the chance to know Dr. Jose P. Laurel at close range. A little
later, Teroy and I appeared with Senator Claro M. Recto in the famous
Politburo case; I began to know Senator Recto better. I recall that
the old man Laurel had always wanted to build a University for the
masses, believing that the only hope of the nation in the long run was
the education of the youth of the land. I was asked to draft the
Articles of Incorporation. I taught International Law and Corporation
Law here in the Lyceum beginning 1952 and enjoyed teaching here
chiefly because the old man Laurel was the president and Senator Claro
M. Recto was the dean of the law school—two political rivals in
the 1930s who had served and worked together in the Constitutional
Convention of 1934 and in the Philippine Republic during the wartime
years. They became close to each other. Looking back, Recto as
Minister of Foreign Affrairs, and Laurel, as President during the
Japanese occupation had outwitted the Japanese in the only battle
where the two could hope to prevail—the battle of wits. But
without any disrespect for Don Claro, it was the lot of Dr. Jose
P. Laurel, more than Recto, to confront the Japanese with nothing but
a clear mind and a pure heart and place himself as a shield between
the might of their guns and the helplessness of his own people. The
erudite and witty Recto once described Jose P. Laurel as great and
good, in the attempt to capture the virtues of the latter with the
clumsy language of humanity.

Drawn apart since we dissolved our law partnership in 1954, Dr.
Sotero H. Laurel and I were drawn together again when we were elected
to the Senate in 1987—the first election after Edsa. He was
chosen by our peers President pro tempore. In September 1991, we were
confronted by a gut-wrenching choice: to follow the overwhelming
desire of our people for us in the Senate to ratify the RP-US Bases
Treaty by allowing the U.S. Military Bases to continue for at least
ten more years in exchange for $203 million—or follow our own
judgment by rejecting the Treaty. This, despite the sufferings of our
people, particularly the many thousands who had become homeless and
jobless, due to the eruption of Mt. Pinatubo which had turned most of
Central Luzon into a wasteland.

Following the example of Dr. Jose Laurel, his equally distinguished
son, Senator Sotero H. Laurel, established his own niche in our
nation's history when he voted NO on September 16, 1991 and by the
collective vote of the Magnificent Twelve, ended more than 400 years
of foreign military presence in the Philippines.

Many do not know that your president had been approached by the
Japanese ambassador and by many dear friends and close relatives to
vote for the Bases Treaty. But when he stood on the floor of the
Senate on that historic date when the whole country was literally
watching and listening to our speeches, he declared: Fairness,
justice, independence, self-determination, self-respect and equality
are values that cannot be measured in terms of money... We are told
that majority of our people want the Treaty to be ratified... But the
times call for moral courage, the courage to differ... It is now time
for inspired and well-informed leadership, and it is time for leaders
to lead.

In this period of apparent chaos and darkness, you in Lyceum, whether
professors or students, are expected to lead—not as masters but
as servants. For God and country—these are the words of
joyful service we honor here in this institution—not service to
ourselves, first and foremost, but service to God and our people,
above all. As one writer would have us know:

Life is like a game of tennis. He who serves well seldom loses.
And if you ask me how, my answer is for all of us, in every situation,
to seek the truth according to our best lights, so we may have the
courage to act, and the fortitude to face and surmount the problems
and challenges of a nation now in deep crisis.

Allow me, then, to paraphrase the prayer of Rheinold Niebuhr, a great
philosoper and theologian: Lord, give us the serenity of mind to
accept the things we can no longer change, the courage to change the
things we can and must change, and the wisdom to know the difference.